


Red Leather Jacket

by ClassicRockInTheTardis



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, One Shot, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:10:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8193217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicRockInTheTardis/pseuds/ClassicRockInTheTardis
Summary: Emma and Regina's life together hasn't been easy, but throughout all of it, they can count on one thing: Emma will always wear that red leather jacket.





	

You’re upset, crying in the girls’ locker room at high school. It was the closest place where he couldn’t follow you. You can’t believe the nerve of him, breaking up with you right before senior prom, and for some bullshit reason of “not wanting to hold you back.” The door creaks open around the corner, and you hear a knock on the wall. Her fist still rests against it, and she asks tentatively, “Can I come in?” as if you were crying in your bedroom. You nod, and she comes to sit beside you on the wooden bench by the lockers. She doesn’t ask what happened, she already knows. Hell, half of the school probably knows by now. You hit the metal locker behind you hard, and a loud thud echoes across the room. You can’t even make out what you’re saying, but you’re sad and broken hearted and furious at him, at the school, at the world, at yourself. She grabs your hands before you can hit the lockers again, pulling you into a hug. You beat her chest, beat that red leather jacket she always wears, but not enough to hurt her, you’d never do that. She strokes the back of your hair as you sob over Daniel until you finally manage to breathe again, hiccupping slightly. You bury your head in the shoulder of that red jacket, smelling the leather and the salt of your tears and that soft smell that’s pure Emma.

You’re a bit better now, leaning against the cold metal lockers with her beside you, still holding your hand, her thumb rubbing the back of your hand in small circles, the way you’d imagine a mother would comfort her daughter (not that you’d know). You’ve finished telling her all the details, cussing Daniel out in every way possible, even though both she and you know the only reason you hate him so much is because you still love him. The shoulder of her jacket is wet from where you were crying, glistening like blood. You bunch up the end of your sleeve to wipe it off, you don’t want the salt staining the jacket she loves so much. Your hand lingers for a second too long, and in that second, you catch her eyes. She still hasn’t said much of anything, other than comforting hushes and reassurances. But in that moment, you know nothing is needed to be said, that you’re best friends for a reason, that – and then she leans forward and kisses you. You quickly jump up and back away, and you see the look of horror on your face reflected in the grubby lockers behind her. You stare at her for a few seconds as she stammers out, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I –“ but you race away before she can explain further. You hear her calling after you, “Regina, wait!” but it’s too late. You spend the next few weeks avoiding any sight of red in the halls.

The next time you see the jacket is move-in day. You’ve pretended you’ve forgotten you two are going to the same college until then. You’re struggling to lug your suitcases up the stairs. You spot the red jacket from all the way down the hall, and once again your eyes meet, but this time there’s no softness to them. You know you’ve hurt her, ignoring her for months. But you still can’t believe it when she tosses her hair over her shoulder and slams her door, the sound of it slamming into your heart. You didn’t expect it to hurt this bad. 

You’re in the library next time you see her, sipping your coffee and highlighting sections of your introduction to government and politics text book.   
“Oh hey!”   
You look up, and she’s standing in front of you, smiling harshly.   
“Didn’t expect to find you here.”   
That’s bullshit, and you both know it. You come to the library every Tuesday afternoon to study for you weekly government quizzes. The real reason she’s here isn’t chance, it’s the boy – well, man – standing behind her, one of his hands slipped into the pocket of her jacket, a wannabe bad-boy still stuck in his emo teenager phase. You immediately put on a sneer, can’t let her know how much you’re hurting inside.   
“You either,” you say. “I’d expect to find you off somewhere meddling in other people’s lives. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”   
Her eyes narrow.   
“Come on, Killian,” she says to her boy toy. “Let’s go somewhere a little more…private.”   
Clearly that last comment was meant for you. You don’t care, you tell yourself, as you watch that cretin slink off with her, hands still in her jacket’s pockets. Disgusting. 

Next time you see the jacket, it’s on the floor of an upperclassman’s bathroom, along with her shirt and his. You didn’t mean to walk in, you just needed to pee. You quickly shut the door before they can even notice. You need another drink. Or four. Before you know it, you’re letting some frat kid with a cheesy lion tattoo fuck you in his bed. You blame the fact that you didn’t come on the alcohol. 

You stumble back to your dorm the next morning, nursing the worst hangover you’ve had in your life. It’s worth it though, when you see her face as she catches you unlocking your door. She flushes redder than her jacket, and the hurt in her eyes echoes that which you felt in your chest last night. You smile, and privately vow to throw out any clothes that aren’t low cut. 

You go further this time. Your roommate’s out of town visiting family. You bring a guy back to your room (you can’t remember his name, but you picked him up in a bar after purposefully losing at darts), making sure she sees you push him against the door and press against him. The red you know so well disappears quickly, and you smile as he kisses you. This time, you fuck him, but it still feels…wrong. You wish his brown coat was red, then hate yourself for thinking such a thing.

You’re in the middle of an argument with her when your phone rings. You can’t remember how you got here, but suddenly all the tension between you two exploded and you both went at each other in the common room. You grit your teeth, seething with anger, and check to see who’s calling you. You turn your back on her, as she says, “Excuse me, but I’m talking to you!” “Hey, Daddy,” you answer, plugging your other ear with your free hand. “What’s –“ The rest of the conversation is a fog. It’s not your dad. Your number was the first on the list. There was an accident, a heart attack. He didn’t make it. “Thank you.” You’ve lowered the phone before ending the call. She’s stopped yelling at you, sensing that something is terribly wrong. Instinctively, she asks, “Regina, who was that?” You can’t get the words out. They catch in your throat, and you’re on the ground, the phone still clutched in your hands. She’s by your side in an instant, hands grasping your forearms to keep you upright. You look at her, see the fear in her eyes, see yourself reflected in them, tiny and blank in the see of concerned brown. Your face is wet, you must be crying, but you don’t understand why. He can’t just be gone. It’s not possible. Her arms wrap around you, and the soft feeling of that familiar worn leather is the only thing anchoring you from floating away. 

The service is nice, you suppose, the mausoleum less so. You remember when you were little thinking it was cool, with all your dead ancestors lying together, like royal lines of old used to. Now, it’s cold and impersonal, a symbol of wealth and status, but not of your father. You think that someone who was so full of life and love should not be entombed in this unyielding stone. People file out, offering their condolences. You stand mute, nodding to them in thanks. Finally, it’s just the two of you left, your hand clasped in hers. All arguments and past wrongs were forgotten. She still wears her jacket, but instead of her normal jeans and tank top, she wears a black blouse. Your dress is black as well, with intricate beading, You bought it for a dance a few years ago, thinking the black made you look stunning. It did, but now you wish you had something a little warmer. You shiver, and feel her hand leave yours, before feeling the warmth of her jacket over your shoulders. You wrap it tighter around you, leaning into her in thanks and comfort. She holds you, and you’re both silent for a few minutes, breathing and mourning together. Finally, you turn in her arms, and kiss her softly and unsurely. She kisses you back, one hand rising to the back of your head, the other anchoring you at your lower back. She pulls away slowly, the question in her eyes.   
“Is this what you want? What you need?”   
“Yes,” you breathe.   
This time she kisses you, once on the forehead.   
“We should go.”   
“Stay with me.”   
“Of course.”

When you see her in the soft candlelight a few months later, you lose your breath. She’s beautiful in her cream shirt, blonde hair lying in loose curls over the red jacket. You stand in a stark contrast to her, with your dark blue blouse and black slacks, your hair swept elegantly up in a complicated braided bun that took you about half an hour to perfect. She stands, smiling, and greets you with a kiss before pulling your chair back for you to sit. Damn, she’s good. She even pays at the end of the night, and put her jacket around your shoulders when you shiver on the walk back to your dorm. You remember the last time she wrapped it around you with sadness, but time heals all wounds, and her warmth helps. You haven’t slept together yet, you’re taking things slowly. You kiss her goodnight and her warmth stays with you even after you’ve given her jacket back. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh, taking in her costume. “Don’t you ever take that stupid jacket off?”   
It’s Halloween, you’re going to a party, and she’s dressed as a cowgirl. Jeans, a bandana around her neck, a typical cowboy hat, and of course, the red leather jacket.   
“As if you’re much better!”   
You look down at yourself, your full skirts of the dress. You think it’s beautiful, and dangerous. “What’s wrong with my costume?” you demand. “I’m a queen, powerful and beautiful.”   
She laughs.   
“Yeah, the evil queen maybe.”   
“It’s not my fault that’s what my features naturally lend themselves to.”   
“Mmm, well I’m not complaining,” she says slyly as she steps towards you, grasping your waist and drawing you close before kissing you.   
“We should really get going,” you pant between kisses. She pulls back, smiling.   
“Of course. Continue this later?”   
A shiver runs down your spine.

To answer your original question, yes, she does take that jacket off, you find out later that night. Amongst other things. You wake up to her bare chest pressed against yours and feel like this is where you belong. 

You’re the one who asks her. The ring is simple, a small diamond surrounded by a few red rubies in a soft gold so it matches the jacket she’s never without. Besides, she looks better in gold than silver, and best in nothing but sunlight. She (obviously) says yes.

You can’t believe she actually left the jacket at home today, although of course you aren’t without the red color following you through the wine red and purple roses lining the side aisles, their crisp golden-brown leaves accenting the fall colors perfectly, She carries a bouquet of red, you one of purple. Neither of you has a father to walk you down the aisle, but you’ve never been traditional at any rate. You meet at the alter and it takes all your willpower to not kiss her before the officiate tells you to. The friends who’ve become your family sit not on two sides, but all in one group. You’ll never be divided again. 

Fancy restaurants’ bathrooms are always beautiful, but the two of you don’t take the time to appreciate the décor. Honestly, whenever her fingers are up inside you, her lips on yours, you can’t appreciate anything but her. You dress quickly afterwards, throwing clothes to each other and combing your fingers through your dark hair you cut in a professional looking bob before starting the Congressional campaign. You rush outside to join the party, thinking you’ve gotten away with it until someone asks if the two of you “had fun in there.” Only then do you realize she’s wearing your black pea-coat and you her jacket. You both blush as red as the leather, but too in love to be much chagrined. 

You’re sitting at the table together, you running through poll numbers, her reading a book for her grad school, her jacket thrown over the back of her chair. You look up when she starts to say, “So, I’ve been thinking.”   
“Yeah?”   
“Well…” she hesitates slightly. “I know it’s been crazy, with your campaign and everything, but we’ve been married for three years now and I was thinking…”   
You grin.   
“Why Miss Swan, do you want to start a family?”   
She laughs nervously. “Yeah I mean I know I said before I wasn’t ready, and I wasn’t, but now, I dunno, I was just thinking, it might be nice to have a kid around.”   
You walk over and kiss her. It’s a long night, going over the logistics of everything, made longer when you decide to have sex in the middle of it, but it’s a Saturday. You can afford to sleep in. 

You grip her hand tight with one hand, ripping the paper covering the chair in the doctor’s office with the other. You’ve been waiting for the tests to come back for two weeks now, and they’re finally in, but the doctor is taking forever. Emma says, “There’s very little chance anything is wrong. It’ll be okay,” rubbing circles across the back of your palm as she did so many years ago. The doctor finally comes in, holding the thick chart in her hand. You take a shaky breath in. She starts talking, spouting a bunch of doctor words, and your heart sinks. You didn’t understand most of it, but you got the gist: you can’t have kids. Emma talks to the doctor, but you can’t hear. It feels like your father died all over again, but this time the hurt is in your gut instead of your heart. You can’t have kids. You can’t have a baby. Emma wraps an arm around your shoulder, and you fix yourself on the smell of the leather and her skin, trying to keep in this world. You know there’s other options, other ways to have a baby, but you’ll never have a baby that’s yours. You know there’s more to being a woman than having kids, hell, you’re a lesbian, but there’s still some part of you that feels…inadequate. Like you disappointed Emma, like you’ve let down the woman you love. 

You’ve been in a haze all day. When you get home, you walk up the stairs to the bedroom, laying on top of the covers still fully clothed, not even bothering to have taken your shoes off. You curl into a ball, as if you could somehow disappear into the covers and wake up and today would never have happened. Emma lies down behind you, curling naturally around you. She doesn’t say anything, just holds you. You turn into her, pressing your head into her chest. She combs her fingers through your hair comfortingly, kissing your forehead, holding you until you fall asleep. 

The next morning is hard, but it’s made a bit easier with apple pancakes drowned in syrup. She reaches over and grasps your hand.   
“So,” she says carefully. “I was thinking, and I could have the kid.”   
You glance up in surprise.   
“But you said, you said you wouldn’t want them to not know their lineage, and –“ “  
I know what I said.” She looks down. “But I want a family with you. I know we could adopt, but the system is so fucked up, and it fucked me up, and I don’t want –“   
You cut her off. “Yes.”   
“What?”   
“Yes. Of course I still want a baby. And if you want to have it, I’d be proud to have our baby have half your genes.” You lean across and kiss her. “Besides, what matters is that we love them, not them being able to trace some family history.”   
She kisses you, and you both laugh against each other. “We’re having a baby,” she says nervously, giggling slightly.   
“Yeah,” you agree with laughter in your voice. “We’re having a baby.”

“Emma, this is getting ridiculous!” you say as you watch her struggle to put her shoes on with her baby bump and her jacket pulling at her shoulders. “The jacket doesn’t even fit anymore, you’re killing yourself here.”   
“Are you calling me fat?” she asks teasingly.   
“I’m calling you nine months pregnant and in labor,” you reply. “We need to get you to the hospital.”   
“The contractions aren’t that –“ she breaks off, grimacing in pain.   
“Ok, that’s it,” you say, pulling her jacket off so she can breathe and tying the laces on her shoes before guiding her into the car, leaning across to kiss her before backing out of the garage. “Let’s go have a baby.”

“He’s beautiful,” you say hushed, afraid to wake the baby. “You’re beautiful.”  
You’re lying in the hospital bed with her in your arms, the baby in hers. He’s tiny and pink, like all babies, wrapped in the hospital linens and little blue hat designating him as a boy.   
“I’m disgusting. All sweaty and gross.”  
“Mmm.” You kiss her forehead. “You just pulled off a miracle. I think you’re entitled to a little sweat.”  
She laughs.   
“God, how’d I get so lucky to find you?”  
“Magic,” you say teasingly.   
You’re both silent for a little while, basking in each other and the new life you’ve taken into yours.   
“I bought a present for him,” you say.  
You bring out the little red hat you bought a few months ago, exchanging the generic light blue one for the red.  
“That way he can match his mother.”  
She leans her head back and kisses you gently in thanks before nestling her head back into your chest.  
“So what should we call him?” You trace a finger gently down his cheek, still finding it hard to believe you’re a mom now.  
“I was thinking…what about Henry?”  
You stare at Emma in surprise, gratitude, and above all, love.   
“Henry,” you whisper. “Daddy would like that.”  
“I wish he could be here to see his grandson,” she says softly.  
“Me too.”  
You’re quiet for a few moments, then the baby stirs, eyes opening and looking up into both of yours. He coos, and your heart melts, forgetting all the sorrow in your life, forgetting the mother that abandoned you, the father that died far too early.   
“Hi, Henry.”

You hear the front door open and close, and Henry comes toddling around the corner. He’s two now and talks nonstop.  
“Hey little man, how’s it going?”  
You scoop him up into your arms, and he babbles excitedly about the mall. You glare at Emma as she enters.  
“Henry tells me you took him to the toy store?”  
Henry giggles mischievously.  
“Oh, like you can resist that face.”  
She sets down the shopping bags, walking over and kissing you. Henry makes a face.  
“Ew, moms!”  
“I hope at least you got him some new clothes. He’s growing so fast…”  
“Don’t worry, we picked up plenty of boring stuff too.”  
She pulls out a toy for Henry, giving it to him as you set him down. He plops his little self on the floor of the kitchen, running the little yellow toy car back and forth on the tiles. Emma pulls out a couple of new pairs of pants and long sleeved shirts for the winter season, throwing them in the laundry basket on one of the chairs. You chat a bit, catching up with each other as she continues unpacking. She talks about how Henry loves the story books at the toy store, looking at all the pictures even if he can’t read, and you update her with the latest gossip from the House of Representatives. (You moved to DC after Emma finished grad school; it became too much of a hassle to fly back and forth all the time with Henry and everything.)   
“Oh and look at what else!” Emma says excitedly, pulling out from one of the bags…a tiny red windbreaker. “What do you think?”  
You laugh.   
“I think you’re trying to make me jealous, and that it’s maybe a little too adorable you matching him.”  
“Hmm, did it work?”  
You walk up behind her, running your hands down her.  
“You’ll find out tonight,” you whisper into her hair.  
“Moms! Ew!”  
You both laugh and chase Henry around as he runs away yelling about “mom cooties.”

“You have everything?” you ask Henry as he gets ready for his first day of kindergarten. “Pencils? Lunch box? Extra pair of socks?”  
“Yes, Mom.” He’s only five, but he already has a killer eye roll. He may not be your biological child, but he certainly has inherited a few things.   
Emma chimes in. “Erasers? Crayons? Box of tissues for your teacher?”  
“Can you just walk me to the bus now?” he whines, clearly having enough of your coddling.   
You tear up as you watch him get on the bus.  
“What are we going to do now?” you ask Emma.  
“The same thing we’ve always done. You’re going to keep fighting with slimy politicians –“  
“Hey!”  
“They’re slimy, and I love you, but you can lie and deceive just as well as any of them and you know it.”  
“Fine, I’m going to focus on making our country better, and you’re going to go back to work doing whatever it is you actually do when you’re not eating bear claws.”  
“We live in a good area. It’s not my fault there’s not much to sheriff.”  
“Mhm.”  
You slip your hands into the pockets of her jacket, pulling her close and kissing her before saying slyly, “Maybe I should give you an excuse to use those handcuffs then. We do have the house to ourselves.”  
She laughs.  
“I’ve got to get to work, because unlike you, I have a job that doesn’t have flexible hours. But rain check that idea?”  
You pout, knowing how it affects her before walking the block back to your house to see her off to work and dive back into the revision of the bill you’ve been working on.

“I still think you should be in red like the other boys.”  
“Mom, how many times do I have to tell you?” Henry said annoyed by Emma’s fussing. “Honors Society wears white. It’s a thing.”  
“I know, but red is our thing.”  
“Emma,” you say as you pull her away from fixing Henry’s tassel from what has to be the hundredth time. “You’re smothering him.”  
Henry groans.  
“Moms, I’m going to be late.”  
“Fine, fine, good luck.”  
“I’m literally walking across a stage and sitting for an hour and a half.”  
He gets out of the car, ducking so as to not hit his head on the roof. He’s taller than both of you, and you remember when he was once a little, slightly precocious kid.   
“Try not to embarrass me too much tonight.”  
“You know we can’t make that deal,” you reply.

You wish you weren’t so used to the slow beeping on the heart rate machine. Emma’s been in the hospital for two months now, after being admitted just a few weeks after her fiftieth birthday. Cancer. It’s spread so much at this point, the doctors aren’t even sure where it started. Doesn’t matter. You’re by her side as you always are from 7am to 7pm, while visiting hours last.   
“Henry published another book,” you tell her. “I brought it if you wanted me to read it to you.”  
She smiles, still not having lost the light in her eyes even if they’re clouded by the sickness.   
“Do you have to ask?”  
You bend over and pull the book out of your bag.  
“I also brought a surprise for you.”  
“If it’s anything to do with Jell-O or substandard grilled cheese…”  
You laugh.   
“No, it’s a good surprise.”  
You pull out her jacket and her eyes brighten more.  
“You brought it.”  
You help her sit forward so you can wrap it around her shoulders, as she did for you so many, many years ago.  
“Had to bring some color into this drab old room. Henry found it in the closet of our old house.”  
“So that’s where I left it.”  
Her memory’s started to go a bit. Cancer eating at her brain. You try not to think about it.  
“Anyways,” she says, resting back and pulling the jacket tighter around her. “Henry’s book?”  
“Right.”   
You open it to the first page and start to read.  
“’This is a book of stories. Stories that many of you may think you already know, but one thing is different about them; all the stories in this book are true. Like all stories, let’s begin the only way we know how: Once upon a time…’”

You grip her jacket tightly, trying to let it anchor you as it’s done so many times over your lives. But it wasn’t the jacket that anchored you, it was her. You breathe in the leathery smell, feel the softness of it, worn over years of wear. It still smells like her somehow. You can’t let go. Sitting at your kitchen table, the same one you’ve had since you moved in together, all the scars from careless knives and Henry’s crayons, another collection of your life together. There’s so many of them, so many things that hold all your memories. But memories mean nothing without your heart, and the woman who held it is in the ground. So you cry, not caring about staining her jacket with your tears. It doesn’t matter anymore. You cry, crying over that table, the same table, in a different house with the lights off, wishing she was here to hold you. But that red leather jacket is all you have left of her. So you vow to never let it go, remembering the first time you clung to it back in that high school locker room.


End file.
